


Wolves Without Teeth

by Aisca



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pre-Slash, Rescue, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 11:15:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5332163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aisca/pseuds/Aisca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders didn't ask to be in the right place at the right time. He didn't ask to be the wedge in Fenris' struggle with his master, and he certainly didn't ask to be the target of his affections. All things considered, it's an aggravating arrangement—but <i>all</i> things considered, he's had less attractive ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolves Without Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> A ongoing fill from the DA kink meme that I'm cleaning up and posting here, by request. Prompt as follows:
> 
> "Fenris is ambushed and captured by Danarius' men, who plan to take him back to Tevinter immediately. Anders just so happens to be at the docks and notices those men dragging Fenris into a ship by force.
> 
> At this point, Anders still hates Fenris and would much rather do nothing to interfere, but he's aware that Hawke and the others will never forgive him if he just stands there, so he takes action.
> 
> He catches the kidnappers by surprise with his magic and frees Fenris from his chains. 
> 
> To Anders that would have been the end of it, but Fenris begins to act differently around him. He is more polite when talking to him and tends to follow him closer when he's out on Hawke's quests. Anders assumes Fenris is trying to repay him for the rescue so that they'll eventually be even, but he soon discovers that the elf has fallen in love with him.
> 
> And Anders isn't sure he could ever return those feelings, as he still views Fenris as the mage-hating elf he always argues with, and all these years of hate just don't go away for him like that."

_Maker’s balls, I'm freezing to death. If only I had somebody to set on fire._

 Anders hunched his back to a sky the color of wine and week-old bruises. Lowtown fog was a familiar companion: black as sin and almost as sticky, breathing hot against his cold skin. He knew the nighttime bustle here, the smells of tar and salted fish and offal slopped on sea-wet decks. Most of the portfolk withdrew at night: the docks were very nearly deserted.

Light spilled from slender doorways, scattering like drops of oil, and he turned his back to the dimly-lit taverns and clapboard shanties, stacked roof-to-roof. Hawke and the others were at the Hanged Man, and Anders had declined to join—or perhaps, more accurately, to nurse stale ale and try to avoid contemplating the shape of Hawke’s lips.

Justice did not approve of drinking. Or kissing. But the list of things that Justice disapproved of could probably surpass the Deep Roads in length, and that left Anders in the mood for self-pity.

He reached the pier, facing the water, and frowned into the middle distance. It was too dark to see the Gallows across Kirkwall Harbor, but it solidified inside his mind's eye as though alight in noontime sun.

His reverie was broken by pounding boots.

“Hold him _still,_ for the love of the Divine.”

There was a bright flash, a snarl of pain, and the loud thud of a stave striking flesh.

Anders jerked. His fist snapped shut, quashing the wisp he’d conjured for light. He ducked into the dark out of habit, not fear: knowledge of his friendship with Hawke had so far warded Templar attention, but that didn’t stop his instinctive response to the noisy approach of men in armor. Besides, it was Lowtown—it was dark—he was alone.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears. He pressed his back to the wall of an alcove, counting the soldiers as they emerged in a rough formation at the end of the docks.

A round dozen, give or take. Foreign mercenaries, by the look of their crests. None of them bore the emblazoned breastplate and scarlet sash of the Templar’s Order, though they occupied space with similar arrogance. As Anders looked on, eyes adjusting, his skin prickled with sudden unease. 

They were dragging a smaller man between them, his features concealed by an over-long cloak. His arms were pinned by a man on each side, and his feet snagged, bare to the ankle, as they hauled him bodily across the pier. Judging by his lolling head, he was either stunned or beaten senseless. One of the soldiers sneered to another, and Anders heard the nasal syllables and pronounced cadence of Tevene.

Slavers, then. Or hired thugs—there were enough Tevinter loan sharks skulking in Lowtown to buy out the Chantry and sell it for scrap metal. Kirkwall was full of easy victims—city elves and unfettered mages, Fereldan natives fleeing the Blight. He saw the worst of it in his clinic, night after night.

Anders moved without making noise. He raised his palm, the spell solidifying, heating his palm as his fingers curved.

Then the captive lifted his head, hood slipping as he jerked, and Anders saw a flash of white hair.

A moment later, the escort roared, tearing his hand from Fenris’ shoulder.

Or, well. From his _teeth._

* * *

 

Anders stared, stunned rigid, and slowly grew aware of his abrupt desire to spin where he stood and stroll back to Darktown.

The man on Fenris’ other side seized him by his filthy hair, forcing him to the ground with a knee in the back. The others pressed in, bristling with weapons, as the elf hissed and struggled for breath.

“Maker’s breath. You got all your fingers?”

“You said you’d subdued him,” the bitten one snarled. “What the hell do I pay you for?”

"You pay me to do your job for you." The man was dressed in robes not unlike Anders’ own, and his fingers still sparked with the remnants of spellwork.

 _What a flashy idiot_. Anders rolled his eyes. _Wear a sign, why don't you, it's not like this is **Kirkwall.**_

His comrade seemed to share the opinion, because he said, “You mages couldn’t conjure competence if it jumped you in the Fade and rode you like a broodmare.”

“You’ll hold your tongue,” the mage said hotly. “Just because we’re not in Tevinter—”

Anders sighed.

Of course it’d be him.

Why _wouldn’t_ he be pawning his smalls at the chance to murder mages for _Fenris?_

Not that the elf hadn’t seen better days. Blood stained his face and hair, trickling into his hooded eyes. He was clad in his tunic and leather leggings—clearly the hunters, if that’s what they were, had stripped him of his sword and armor. Fenris' arms were red to the elbow, but his wrists were cuffed and chained together. Metal gleamed around his neck, dull and cruel and coldly constricting.

Anders had seen such collars before—adorning the hunchbacked, grasping statues that bowed their heads before the Gallows.

Fenris’ markings pulsed with agitation. His bindings must be lyrium-lined; even drugged and likely concussed, the elf would phase through normal cuffs. As Anders watched, he lifted his head and spat red at his captors’ feet.

_Maybe he’ll die, pissing and screaming, of a horrific bloodborne disease. Then I won’t have to rescue him, will I?_

**_He is enslaved, in turn, by those he would enslave. Is this not justice? It is none of our concern._**

_None of our concern?_ Anders snorted. _Hawke is going to shit bricks to hell._

**_Hawke is a distraction. A dangerous one._**

_You’re a distraction,_ he snapped in response, and Justice rumbled with rising anger.

Ander’s teeth ground together. Fenris was hardly an _innocent_ , was he? He’d tortured men without hesitation, crushed their throats and burst their hearts without a flicker of human emotion. Anders had watched him—watched his face—and seen no sadism, only spite. There was violence carved in the hide of him; a second, secret set of marks.

But still.

He hadn’t turned on Hawke.

And part of him knew that he only despised him because of the way he made Anders _weak—_ brought out the worst of his petty hatred, destroyed what little confidence he had in his ability to be a decent man.

The mage with his fist in Fenris' hair lifted a dully glowing hand, and the lyrium ignited in a burst of blue light. Anders flinched at the sudden glow, but didn’t balk as Fenris collapsed, his body locked in a radiant net of swirling, white-hot lyrium lines.

“On your feet, elf,” the hunter hissed. He yanked the chain, cinching the collar, and Fenris rose choking to his knees. Only the swordpoints on every side kept him from pitching onto his face. Slow tremors racked his body, rolling down his legs and spine, and his fingers spasmed, slim without their spiked gauntlets.

Anders crouched, still as stone, and watched as they dragged him into the fog.

* * *

 

Fenris woke from a haze of pain to discover hands around his neck.

He lashed out on base instinct. Lyrium blazed along his limbs as he phased, plunging his hand toward his assailant’s chest, already expecting the suction of flesh and the quivering heartbeat, crushed in his fist.

But his arms were lead—his muscles milk—and he managed only an aborted swing that the other man easily caught. With panic, he realized his wrists were still chained, his lyrium inert beneath his skin.

He’d expected this, but his gut still wrenched, and his entire body crawled with anticipation. He’d tear them apart before he let them touch him, before they put their hands on him, it'd surely get worse, he’d surely be punished, but he’d rather _fucking_ rot in the void, he’d rather—

“Oh, for Andraste’s sake.” Warm hands seized his own and pressed them awkwardly down to his chest. “Lie still, Fenris. I’m trying to help.”

Fenris’ eyes cracked blearily open, and the abomination’s face swam into view.

“What?” he croaked, and then: “Mage?”

His voice sounded far too weak.

“That’s right. _Mage_.” A grunt from above him—the collar burned, but it didn’t budge. “Remember that the next time you’re struck with an explosive urge to proselytize.”

The hands mere inches from his face glowed with white-blue energy, and Fenris couldn’t help but flinch.

“Sorry,” came a mutter, and he blinked in surprise. “Give me a second. I’ve almost got it.”

A moment later, the collar clicked. Fenris choked, stuttered, _breathed_ , the pain seared into his throat like a brand already dwindling, ebbing to nothing. Strength and sensation returned to his limbs, and the markings, unblocked, flared with new light. The glowing hands moved on to his cuffs, and he heard them creak as the locks unfastened. He made to move, but the mage held him back, and before he could speak there was a rush of warmth as the sores around his wrists scabbed closed.

 _Thank you._ It sat on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed the words and said, “Where’s Hawke?”

Suspicion flickered across Anders’ face.

“What about Hawke? Why are you asking?”

“Who else is here? Aveline? Varric?”

“No one,” said Anders shortly. “Just me.”

Fenris frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Oh, trust me, I agree.” The mage straightened, brushing off his robe, tucking his staff in the crook of his arm. “Can you stand up? Do you feel any pain?”

Fenris pulled his legs from beneath him and made an awkward attempt to rise. They locked up instantly, as though asleep, and he stumbled, flailing for purchase in the dark. Anders caught him, reflexive and clinical, then released his bare elbow as though he’d been scalded.

“Let’s go,” he said. His face was impassive, and Fenris, for all that he searched it for clues, could not make out a hint of intention.

They surfaced into ominous silence. Fenris’ eyesight returned slowly, its edges dulled by hours in the dark. The hunters had brought an apprentice with them—he’d launched himself at the bastard’s throat only to hit the deck on his back, a caustic potion forced past his lips, his consciousness deserting him as the hunters dragged him down to the hold. Even now, his head was whirling, clouding his vision and slowing his wits.

He was vaguely aware of the blood on his face. He could taste it in his mouth, but it was no longer fresh. His fingers prodded the back of his head—and found no injury, not even a lump.

“You’re welcome,” said Anders. “Watch your step.”

“I do not require your assistance.”

“Suit yourself,” came the unfazed reply, just as his foot brushed something slick.

He leapt back with a cry of surprise. There was a corpse at his feet, black and oozing, the stench of charred meat faint but putrid. Only the breastplate, partially melted, identified the corpse as one of the hunters who’d manhandled Fenris into the hold.

 _“You_ did this?” he said in astonishment. With a lurch of realization, he turned to see them—other burnt and sunken heaps, strewn across the deck like so much garbage. Now he knew the source of his disorientation. It wasn’t the trauma of his abduction—Maker knew he’d had much worse—but the twistedly familiar aura of magic, its intimate reek in the ocean air.

“Was it you?” he asked harshly. “Or was it your demon?”

Anders shook his head and laughed. Fenris had always loathed his laughter—a full, golden, resonant sound that did not seem to fit his habitual bitterness. Anders knew hatred, as Fenris did; he breathed it, nursed it, like a flame from warm coals. But this laughter was tired and honest, matching the weary slump of his shoulders.

“Justice told me to leave you,” he said. “He had the irony all worked out. An elf who permits the subjugation of mages, forced to return to slavery himself.”

“And you—“ He paused. “You disagreed?”

To his surprise, Anders bristled. “Don’t you dare sound so surprised.”

“You hate me and everything I stand for. You’d want me dead, if not for Hawke.”

“There are less dramatic ways to kill a rival through inaction. How many times have you required my healing? How many times have I closed your wounds without being asked or even thanked?” Anders closed his eyes momentarily, and when he opened them again he sounded almost awkward. “Look, Fenris. Don’t read into it. You’re going to keep doing battle like a berserk Qunari, and I’m going to keep losing beauty and youth with the effort of keeping your blood in your body. Keeping you alive is just a bad habit.”

“That is different,” said Fenris, hoarse and confused.

“Hardly," said Anders. "Hawke needs us both.”

“But you came here alone. You…risked yourself.”

“Well, it wasn’t on your account.” The flash of vulnerability was gone, and Anders glared, his lips set. “I _said_ I’d prove I wasn’t weak.”

Fenris’ gut clenched with something strange, a terrible fragility that twisted like a knife.

“Come on, then, let’s get to the clinic. I’ll send Lirene to fetch Hawke.” Anders turned from him, fisting one hand, and light flared as he spread his palm. “You’ll draw too much attention returning to Hightown. And unless you want to spend the next three weeks with the mother of all psychic hangovers, I need to take a look at your head.”

“Mage,” he said. “You’ve misunderstood me.”

“I see no need for understanding between us.”

Fenris’ throat closed up like a tomb, stifling any further protest. He followed, silent, his wrists aching, his eyes fixed to the apostate’s back.


End file.
